


In Solidarity

by evelynwaaaaah



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Soulful Smut, F/M, Feelings, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelynwaaaaah/pseuds/evelynwaaaaah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal'lasean Lavellan finds herself feeling lost and alone without her vallaslin or the mage who removed them for her. She seeks comfort from Dorian, who seeks answers from Solas. Hal and Solas say a proper goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

By the time the Inquisitor found herself back in Skyhold, the majority of the fortress was swaddled in sleep. She made far too much noise fighting the covers tangled around her legs and stumbling to the nearby wash basin, but she doubted she’d wake anyone. Her quarters were so isolated from the others’ that she probably could have screamed and upended a bookcase and no one would have been the wiser.

But she didn’t want to smash or shout. All she wanted was to see her face.

When Solas had offered to remove her vallaslin, she’d hesitated only briefly. Her tattoos were who she was, where she came from, a reminder to herself and everyone else that the Inquisitor was first and foremost a Dalish elf. She liked that, in her proud way. She liked that it set her apart. It was important to remember she would always be separate from these Andrastians, even if she didn’t really know what she believed anymore. But in the moment that he’d asked her to allow him to work his intimate magic, knowing the truth of the marking’s origins and having just committed herself for better or for worse to Mythal’s service…

She didn’t want to be anyone’s slave. Not Mythal’s. Not her past’s. And maybe she wasn’t so different after all. Maybe she was becoming more like the Inquisition every day as it became more like her. Maybe this would denote a new beginning.

It had felt right. Like a gesture of her love for him and for herself. So she’d let Solas set her free.

She just didn’t realize he meant to set her free from himself as well.

With trembling hands, she held the little vanity mirror up to survey the damage, still not really believing that the tattoos she’d waited so long to receive, that had taken so much effort to do in the first place, could be so easily given away. But there she was in her reflection, pale with her pain, features drawn but impassive, and the only purples left on her skin were the natural undertones of her complexion.

She looked young and vulnerable. Like the lonely little girl she used to be before her face had been inked. Like the scared child she might have been under her vallaslin all along.

She felt naked.

She felt tricked.

She felt alone.   

 

~~~

 

Her walk for fresh air was already going badly. Without realizing it, her feet — the little traitors — had taken her on their favorite path to Solas’ rotunda, and though her heart longed to be there as well, longed to beg him to explain or convince him to change his mind, her head told her it wouldn’t be good for either of them. Maybe he just needed space and time to consider again, as he’d done with their first kiss in the Fade. There was much of Solas that reminded Hal’la of the stories of the elves of old, the ones who could take years to decide the simplest things. She loved him for that. So she would respect his wishes even if it felt like her heart was wading through the burning cold of the Frostbacks after Haven.

But Hal’la didn’t want to be alone. Couldn’t stand the thought of it. So after hesitating briefly outside the door to the mural she loved so well, her feet turned instead down a series of chilly corridors to another door around which no light escaped.

She knocked lightly to avoid waking anyone else and then waited. When nothing happened, she knocked again, a little louder this time, and waited. It was her impatience that was finally bringing her hurt to the surface, the mild panic at the thought that Dorian might not wake or even be in his room that proved the perfect pathway for the boiling pain she had so far successfully trapped in her chest. She lifted her fist to rap one last time when a clatter and a soft curse came from inside. There was the sound of a candle being lit and footsteps coming toward her, and then the door opened and Dorian stood before her, a housecoat on his shoulders but left lazily open so that she could see clearly in the flicker of the flame his bare, muscular torso and his absurdly fancy smallclothes.

Despite his obvious drowsiness, he took one look at her wan features and quirked his brows. “Oh dear. Who’s died this time?”

He was such a welcome presence that Hal’lasean almost started crying right there, but she maintained her composure through brute force of will. Dorian lifted his candle in the darkness, holding it closer to her, and squinted hard at her quivering expression.  

“What have you done to your face?” he mused. “Not that I’m complaining. Facial tattoos have been out of fashion in Tevinter since— oh. Oh, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I’m no good at crying.”  

Dorian’s face twisted with his distress, but the tears were flowing freely now down Hal’s unmarked cheeks. The mage clumsily set aside his candle and pulled the Dalish woman into his arms, awkwardly rubbing her back through her robe. When she held him tightly in response, he grimaced uncomfortably.

  “Okay. Okay, let’s just…” He swallowed and peered down the hall in both directions, grateful for the empty dark and lack of prying eyes. Rumors about their supposed trysts were one thing, but it wouldn’t do for the Inquisitor to be seen openly weeping, much less being comforted.

  “You know, Hal,” he informed her, closing his door with his foot and leading her to sit on the end of his rumpled bed, “I think you may be the first woman I’ve ever taken to my bed.” He was greatly relieved when she gave him a watery smile. “Well,” he admitted, “there was this third cousin twice removed when I was fifteen, but only because she was very pushy and I thought it would please my father. We kissed rather clumsily a few times and then I told her she’d make a handsome boy and she left the room crying.” He grinned crookedly at her. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Despite her wet cheeks and her sorrow, Hal’lasean let out a pitiful laugh. It was enough to allow her to regain some of her composure or at least to stem the flow of tears. Dorian leaned across her to reach his bedside table and rummaged through a drawer before producing a beautifully embellished handkerchief. She took it gratefully.

“Are you going to tell me what happened or shall I guess? Though I warn you, if you force me to guess, they will be both outrageous and offensive.” Dorian grinned rakishly in an effort to further cheer her up, but her sadness tugged at him. Soon he was softening his features and reaching out to draw his thumb across her cheekbone. “Of course you don’t have to tell me, do you. There’s only one mage in Skyhold who could take these from you and live.”  

“He didn't take them,” Hal admitted finally, her voice strained. “I gave them to him.” She shook her head. “Gave him permission.”

  Dorian allowed that to sink in, fondly tucking the elf’s overgrown bangs behind her pointed ear. “If you’d told me a year ago I’d be sitting nearly naked in bed with an elf woman,” he joked, but gently. “You know, in Tevinter, we give each other our bodies, not our tattoos.”  

“It’s complicated,” she murmured and he smiled his understanding.  

“I’m finding elves always are.” And that, finally, made her smile again. With her crying almost completely finished, Dorian ventured a little further in his questioning. “If you gave him your tattoos, shouldn’t you two be copulating like rabbits in the Fade somewhere?”

At her affronted expression, he thought hastily back through his words and blanched. He was always saying something terrible to the elves in the Inquisition, whether he knew it or not. “I didn’t mean rabbits,” he assured her. “I just meant—“  
   
The Inquisitor shook her head to assuage his guilt. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” But she offered nothing further.

“So what happened?” he prompted again. 

It was an easier thing to tell than she’d expected, though her voice shook and she occasionally had to stop to dry her tears or find the right words. Aside from one outburst -- "Ha! So there were slaves in Arlathan as well, that hypocritical--" "Dorian, please." -- Dorian listened attentively and with sympathy. But Hal could see the way his expression was darkening and his muscles tensing as she explained how Solas had simply…walked away.  

His lips pursed irritably beneath his sleep-tweaked mustache. “He brought you there, told you _that_ , removed your vas— vasel—“  
   
“Vallaslin.”

  “Yes, removed those, said all those lovely things to you, kissed you, and then…?”

“No,” sighed Hal, “it wasn’t just a kiss, it was…” Her frown looked so different without the dramatic contrast of her tattoo against her cool-hued skin. “Things were getting… _heated_. It didn’t feel as though he’d planned it this way. Or maybe he did. I don’t…I never know with him. But I think he meant things to go differently. Perhaps he’s confused or scared or…”  

“Or a pretentious ass? A despicable coward?” suggested Dorian helpfully. “A complete—“

“Dorian, he hasn’t done anything wrong,” she argued.

“He hasn’t done much right.”  

Though the gesture was dripping sorrow, the Inquisitor favored him with an affectionate smile. “You’re a good friend, Dorian, Vint or no.”

  The mage rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, but he couldn’t hide the pleased way his entire face warmed at her approval. “Yes, well, don’t go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.” She grinned almost fully and his heart swelled with relief. He made a show of draping himself languidly back on his pillow, stretching his scantily clad body in the candle light as though he were trying to seduce her. “Speaking of which, if I absolutely must have a woman in my room this late at night, we may as well make it worth the gossips’ time.” He put one arm out to hold her and patted his chest invitingly. “Come, come, Inquisitor. We may be celibate, but we’re not dead yet.”

  The look she gave him was sidelong but amused. He wicked away the flames in the room with his magic and she curled up alongside him, fitting herself comfortably to his body in a very different way than she would have with Solas. While Dorian blushed and tried to pretend he was unaffected by the sweetness of their friendship, Hal reached up to delicately twist at his askew mustache.

  “If you were really my friend,” she told him with a smirk, “you’d shave this. In solidarity.”  

"If you don’t shut up and go to sleep,” he countered with a defensive scowl, “you’ll wake up with a shaved head.”

Hal grinned and planted a kiss on Dorian's cheek. They both settled in, preparing for sleep. 

“You love your mustache more than me?” she wondered, her cheek on his chest, his hand on her hair.  

Dorian let out a little _hmph_. “I will never love anything as I do this mustache.”

They fell into a silence heavy with their private thoughts. It was a long time before either of them finally passed into the Fade.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian and Hal both slept fitfully.  
  
For the Inquisitor, it was the constant ache in her chest and the delirious dreams in which she returned to her clan mounted on a massive wolf only to have them turn their backs to her when they saw her bare face. She would wrap her arms around the wolf's neck to cry, but then he too would turn his back. She wandered a barren world in which no one knew her and no one wanted her. Eventually she could not even remember her own name.  
  
For Dorian, it was the uncomfortable fact that he kept trying to cuddle more romantically in his sleep and waking up to find a girl in his arms. It was terribly disconcerting, made more so by the little sounds of pain she made in her sleep and the anguish that knit her brows together. He felt utterly useless and inadequate and cursed himself for not being better at these things. Or at least not knowing better jokes.

They took turns lying awake and staring into the darkness. So it was that when the first rays of thin mountain light wriggled through the drapes, Dorian let out a beleaguered sigh and pressed his lips to Hal's naked forehead. It was a gesture of his affection for her he'd made countless times before, but always with her tattoos guiding his lips to a central spot like a treasure map. It was strange to suddenly be unsure of where to place his kiss. He couldn't imagine how disorienting it must be for Hal.

"Wake up, my little Dalish beard," he murmured against her pointed ear.  
  
She frowned very seriously with her eyes closed. "You don't have a beard," she grumbled, only barely conscious.  
  
"If I did," he promised cheerfully, "I'd shave it for you. In solidarity."  
  
When Hal'la opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Dorian's self-delighted grin. She couldn't help but return it with a sleepy, sadder one of her own. "I don't want your blighted beard. I demand mustache." And then she laughed. "I mustache you for your mustache."  
  
Dorian groaned and shoved her playfully away from him. "Get up. I have lost all feeling in my arm and it's entirely your fault. I thought elves were supposed to be slender and light."  
  
This time it was Hal who  _hmph_ ed. "You're grouchy this morning."  
  
"I had a lovely dream that I was the little spoon to a burly Nevarran acrobat and when I awoke, there was just you."  
  
The elf started laughing at that and continued to chuckle about it as she rolled off of Dorian's arm and then off of his bed. "I'm so sorry," she assured him mirthfully, "I'd be grouchy too." She tugged her robe over the shift-and-breeches combination she'd hastily thrown on the night before and tied it firmly to cover anything that the Chantry might find too scandalous.   
  
"And you?" wondered Dorian, sprawling across the bed to reclaim it. "How did you sleep?"  
  
"Terribly," she admitted with a hapless smile. "But I think it would have been much worse if I'd been on my own." Her expression was turning too far toward earnestness for Dorian's liking. "Thank you for that."  
  
He shrugged dismissively. "It was cold in here. I was using you."  
  
But instead of letting the moment go like the mage would have preferred, Hal'la only became more serious, locking her gaze to his so that he couldn't escape all those complicated feelings. "Dorian," she said significantly, her voice thickening. "I don't know what I'd do without you."  
  
A dozen glib responses flickered through his mind, as well as a handful of things he'd like one day to say to her in reciprocation. But the jokes felt inappropriate and the confessions of her importance to him were overwhelming, so instead he just gave a small, slightly tortured smile.  
  
This, thankfully, seemed to be enough for her. "I'll see you at breakfast?"  
  
Grateful for the change of subject, Dorian's smile grew in size and confidence. "I wouldn't dare miss the speculation over your new look. I plan to start a few rumors about it myself!"  
  
Hal leveled a fond but unamused look his direction before peeking down the corridor and slipping out while the coast was clear.  
  
Dorian gave her a count of one hundred ("one-Magisterium, two-Magisterium") to get down the hall before he threw back his covers and began the business of getting ready for the day. For once in his life, he spent less than five minutes deciding exactly which ensemble he wanted to wear and, even more exceptionally, barely touched his hair and mustache beyond making sure they looked presentable. Because the man he was going to see wouldn't give a druffalo's dick what he looked like and Dorian knew he had limited time to complete his mission if he wanted to avoid the Inquisitor ever finding out. He thanked the Maker not for the first time for his natural good looks. He wouldn't have had a hope of getting there in time if he'd had less to work with.  
  
With one last appraising look in the mirror, he snatched up his staff, tugged down his overcoat, and strode through the castle with determination and purpose, waving off anyone who tried to waylay him, no matter how attractive. He didn't slow or stop all the way from his room to the library tower, throwing the dual doors in his way open with a wave of his staff and taking point in the center of the round, painted room.  
  
" _Solas_!" he called thunderously, planting the butt of his staff loudly on the stone floor to proclaim his presence. His mustache twitched with the grinding of his teeth as he surveyed the rotunda, looking for its most frequent occupant. "I know you're in here, you shiny-scalped fustilarian bastard! Come out and answer for what you've done!"  
  
"There is no need to shout," came Solas' infuriatingly calm and collected voice from the wooden platform above his head. Dorian drew back his shoulders and lifted his chest, posturing as powerfully as he knew how while the reedy form of the bald elf climbed unhurriedly down the ladder. The Tevinter mage had prepared a menu of particularly vicious insults to start the confrontation, and he opened his mouth to deliver a choice appetizer when Solas turned to meet his gaze.   
  
"Maker, you look like shit."  
  
Solas' eyes were red-rimmed and red-veined, subtle reminders of the elf he and Hal had found in the dungeons of Redcliffe, and he was definitely wearing the same clothing he'd had on the day before -- poor form even for Solas. Just like that, Dorian deflated. He sat on the corner of the paper-strewn desk and leaned his staff against the chair so that he could study his bald counterpart's mien.  
  
"How is she?" asked Solas with as much need as he could allow Dorian to see.  
  
Dorian scowled protectively in response, which was about as much malice as he was able to muster in the face of such misery. "How do you think."  
  
"But she came to you?" the apostate confirmed. He nodded to himself before Dorian even had a chance to answer. "Good." Solas brought himself to his full height in front of Dorian, his hands clasped behind his back, and stood there like a man awaiting judgment for a crime against the gods themselves. When Dorian just stared at him in return, Solas sighed. "I have a very busy day ahead of me, Pavus, and I found no rest in the Fade last night. Whatever it is you've come to say, please get on with it."  
  
Dorian's eyes narrowed irritably. "I only want to know why." This wasn't strictly true. He had come in the hopes of goading the elf into a fight and he had brought some of his best offensive material. But he also hadn't expected to find Solas looking quite so affected.  
  
Solas studied the other mage for a thoughtful moment, his expression unreadable as usual. "No," he said simply.  
  
" _No_?"  
  
"No," he reiterated.  
  
"And just why not!" Dorian's ire was coming back and he grabbed up his staff to more dramatically gesticulate should he need to start yelling.  
  
"Because it is none of your business," said Solas reasonably.

Dorian's mustache twisted with the angry curl of his lips. "It  _is_ my business because  _she_ is my business! If you wanted to kiss and run and then play coy, you should have done it with someone else --  _anyone_ else -- the castle's full of other women, elves if that's your preference! But you haven't chosen someone else, have you, you've chosen her! And now you've  _hurt_ her and so you get to deal with me."  
  
Something shifted behind Solas' careful mask, though Dorian couldn't make out just what it was. Amusement, perhaps? Understanding? Could it be respect? He brushed those thoughts away, unwilling to consider anything that might diminish his rekindled anger.  
  
"Hal'la does not need anyone else to fight her battles for her," said Solas. "And I doubt she'd want this." He sighed his resignation. "I have no desire to fight you, Dorian. Not over this and especially not now."  
  
"You don't get to be pretend to be wise and aloof this time, Solas," fumed Dorian. "If you won't talk, I will. Let's play a little game, shall we? I'll tell you a reason you might have walked away from her and you tell me when I've found the right one." He plowed through before Solas could say a word. "Reason one: you're a coward! You're afraid of commitment or you're afraid of losing her or you're afraid she'll finally realize your staff is the only sizable thing about you and so you've run from her to save your own yellow hide." His brows shot up impatiently. "Does that sound familiar? Or how about this: somehow, possibly through gruesome feats of blood magic, you've managed to have not just Hal's affections but someone else's and you're a complete imbecile who can't see that she is clearly the best thing you will ever come across in your miserable, hermit-y life. No? That's probably for the best because if I found out you'd been leading her on or cheating on her, I would most definitely flay you alive and turn your pasty skin into the next Tevinter fashion. So what else, Solas, what else could it  _possibly_ be? What could be worth taking away her tattoos and then  _abandoning_ her in the middle of a kiss? Hm? And if you try to give me that gurnshit 'distraction' line you gave her, I swear to every god that ever was, I will--"

" _Enough_!" snarled Solas. It was only now that Dorian noticed just how close to actual anger the elf seemed. Though he stood unmoving with his hands still neatly clasped, his chest rose and fell swiftly and there was an icy fire in his eyes that the Tevinter had only ever seen in the wake of the death of Solas' spirit friend. "That is enough!"  
  
That's when Dorian's gaze slipped beyond the elf in front of him to the smaller, prettier elf looking stricken in the doorway. His skin paled and his fury flooded out of him, leaving him staring apologetically into Hal's devastated, tattoo-free face.


	3. Chapter 3

Fury marbled with agony shot through Solas' veins with each uneven beat of his splintered heart. He listed all the reasons why he should not and would not kill Dorian where he stood. Most of those reasons were Hal'lasean Lavellan. Perhaps it was the way his mind was worrying at her name like a mabari with a bone that it took him so long to register that the Tevinter mage was no longer glaring challenges at him, was no longer glaring at all. Dorian looked guilty and ashamed, though it was a fraction of what clutched steel-gauntleted at Solas' innards. There was, of course, only one person who could ever cow that stylized braggart into humbling himself. It was the same person whose soul was wound inextricably to his own. Solas cursed himself for being so preoccupied with Dorian that he didn't feel her presence as soon as she drew near. He knew her expression without even looking, could practically feel the way her soul bled where he'd tried to cut them apart. Knowing it was there was too much. He would not survive seeing it for himself.

Solas' gaze dropped to the floor several feet in front of him, focusing on nothing so that the rest of him could focus on anything else. Anything but her. He felt his indignation at Dorian's accusations twist away like feathery embers in the wind, leaving him only with the clingy residue of the emotion and an ancient exhaustion. It was a long time before anyone spoke.

"Hal..." offered Dorian by way of apology.

"I think you've said enough," she murmured in return, her throat tight around her words. Solas swallowed thickly, instinctively taking her burdens for his own. Then again, weren't they his? He made them for her himself and left them behind when he turned his back on her. Solas felt himself sink further into the familiar quicksand of self-loathing. But it was better now, better to hate himself for the responsible choice, the choice to keep her safe from what was to come, from what he was, from those who might seek to stop him.   
  
_And she? Would she seek to stop me?_  
  
An image took shape in his mind, one he frequently dreamed but dared never acknowledge: the two of them, side by side, remaking the world the way it always should have been. He banished the thought the moment it appeared. That was a useless and dangerous path. That was the path to despair.  
  
_This is the path to despair, Fen'Harel_ , part of him insisted.  
  
Solas clenched his jaw resolutely and turned with excruciating patience to finally look upon his vhenan's free, exquisite, tormented visage. His heart cracked so intensely that he worried for a moment it had been audible. He searched her features, memorizing them in their pain and their beauty, longing for her across ages when he hadn't even known she was missing from his life.  
  
_This is my penance_ , he told himself ruthlessly.  
  
_And hers_? wondered the other part of him.  _What crime has she committed_?  
  
_Her crime was falling in love with the Dread Wolf_. 

Solas almost voiced a dark laugh at his own conflicted thoughts.   
  
He and Dorian were both staring at her now, her two loyal, stupid hounds...but at least Dorian hadn't hurt her wittingly. She returned only the Tevinter mage's gaze, avoiding Solas with every ounce of self-control and dignity that remained to her, using Dorian as a lifeline even as she expressed her disappointment in him.  
  
"You deserve better," Dorian said finally, mustache quivering with the tense muscles of his face. He threw a last, righteous glower in Solas' direction. "She deserves better."  
  
Solas's brow lifted in one truly genuine expression of his remorse. "I know."  
  
"Dorian," murmured Hal'la, and Dorian tore his focus from Solas and trudged for the door, his shoulders drooped and his head slung low. Solas heard him give a soft apology as he passed her, and then they were alone.  
  
Still she would not look at him.  
  
The silence between them ached with all the things he wanted to tell her and all the things she wanted him to say. An urgent restlessness steeped in Solas' muscles and he could no longer stand still, so he slid gently around her to shut the door and then again to take a seat on one side of the well-loved couch that had seen so many of their most intimate moments.  
  
"Please," he requested of her, placing his hand beside him on the cushion in invitation. "Sit with me, vhenan." With only Hal'lasean to hear, his voice now sought to betray him with every sound. Had he been anyone else, he would already be lost in her arms, begging for forgiveness. Had he been anyone else, he never would have turned away in the first place.  
  
The Inquisitor considered his offer with her face in turbulent wrinkles, thinking hard at the floor instead of at him. He could not stop his unabashed staring at her unmarked skin, more radiant and more truly her even than he had imagined it. He had finally done it and then torn himself away. It was only the night before, but already he couldn't remember exactly how he had wanted that scene to go. Did he truly mean to leave her then? Hadn't he meant to tell her something else? Something bigger? And why hadn't he? Why had he turned from her? Why then?  
  
His anguish consumed him and his doubt ate away at whatever remained. He knew now only three truths: he was the Dread Wolf, he had a duty to finish what he had started, and he was perilously close to sacrificing all of it for another handful of mortal years in her bed, in her heart.  
  
She moved through the rotunda as though it were the thickest part of the Fade and for once he was the impatient one, urging her silently to hurry to him. She sat as he wanted, where he wanted, tentative and uncertain and distant. He had done this to her, he reminded himself. This was what his love had wrought.  
  
And still he pulled her to him, folding her into his embrace and guiding her head to his shoulder. She came willingly but mechanically, like an articulated doll at first, then warming to him and curling up against his body as though they were made to fit together. He pressed his lips to her hair and closed his eyes. "Ir abelas, ma lath," he breathed. And then, before he could stop himself, "ma uthlath."  
  
Tears slipped from her cheeks to the crook of his neck and he cringed at the painful contraction of his heart.  
  
More time passed with not a word between them, just their bodies close together, their shaky breathing syncopated, their hearts beating limply as one. If they had to hurt like this, at least for now they could hurt together.  
  
It was nearly half an hour before she found the strength or the will to speak again. The castle was coming alive around them, though most of it was still relegated to the kitchens and living quarters. The library, at least, remained theirs. Hal'lasean wiped a hand across her empty cheek and lifted her head to regard Solas with her broken heart on an altar before them. Unable to bear the sight of it, he cupped her face in one hand and kissed her forehead, longing to make a thorough study of her now that her vallaslin no longer declared her Mythal's slave. The irony of her choice of god and her choice to drink from Mythal's well was not lost on him.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered, "about Dorian."  
  
He shook his head even while his lips stayed firmly against her skin.  
  
"If I'd known he was planning..." She shut her eyes tightly and thinned her lips in grim amusement. "But I suppose I could say the same for you."

Solas held white-knuckled to his composure and though he was not a man to pray -- for why would he? -- the coward in him cried out to whatever might be listening for her to be angry, to be furious at him, to scream and punch and spit. Hatred he could understand. Hatred he knew. Hatred he was used to. This-- this was torture.  
  
He turned his head to rest his cheek against her forehead. "It would be easier for both of us if you could find it in your heart to hate me," he told her, but even that came out pulled taut with his love for her. And to his surprise, she laughed. He pulled back to regard this Dalish wonder, this Inquisitor, this mortal woman who had bound him when no other soul had in all the years he'd yet lived. She alone, of all those he had ever known, had managed to trick the trickster.  
  
Her eyes were wet but clear, shining the violet-touched-turquoise of the birds of the Arbor Wilds, and she met his gaze bravely and openly. She was always open to him. Always honest and generous of herself. And he had given her nothing in return for her troubles. Nothing but pain.  
  
And despite all of that, she managed a weak smile. "I don't have it in me to do anything but love you, Solas." Something fierce and determined crept in beneath her hurt, a strength that Solas so admired. One that he worried would be her downfall when it came to him. Or perhaps it would be his. "Whatever you do," she continued solemnly. "Wherever you go. Loving you is the last true thing I know."

The carefully-compiled serenity of his mask crumbled briefly, leaving him exposed and brutalized by her confession. For once, he did not know what to say.  
  
And that, too, made her smile. She leaned forward before he could stop her, holding her lips against his in a kiss so pure even the spirits would understand. He returned it chastely, sorrowfully, and did not pull away when she rested their foreheads together. "Fen'Harel himself could not twist my love for you," she promised.


	4. Chapter 4

It was only now, pressed against Solas so their souls could be closer in their loss, that Hal'lasean began to suspect that he might actually be suffering the worst of this. It dragged her closer to him, calling her as other people's pain always did. Perhaps that's why she and Cole so understood one another. Or why Solas had ever given her a glimpse behind the mask in the first place. That was, after all, what Solas had always named her when he confessed his feelings in their most elevated form: a spirit. And there was no denying his fondness and loyalty to those higher denizens of the Fade. Her heart warmed her already volcanic love for the man before her as she considered his words as the compliment they surely were. That warmth spread up her ribs, joined at her clavicle, and rose like steam to her lips, which reached again for his.

This time, though, he stopped her.

It was a simple gesture, just his fingers touching her mouth mere inches from his own. His blue eyes spoke freely of his longing and regret. It was the only thing holding Hal'la together at this point -- his pain, which he so seldom allowed her to see. And now she could practically touch it. She ached to taste it on him, but instead there were his fingers on her lips.  
  
"Ir abelas," he said again, his features contorting faintly to prove it. "Ir abelas," he repeated again uselessly.  
  
It was her turn to reach for his face now. She drew the pad of her thumb across his cheek and rested her palm there because she knew unshakably by now that just as his pain drew her to him, her touch drew him out of himself. Mixed with the roiling behind his arctic eyes now was a hint of something else. A question so ephemeral that should either of them breathe, it would wisp away forever. It looked to Hal'la like hope.  
  
She decided immediately that she would be strong for him. He, who had been her unflagging strength each time she needed him most, who had only ever asked her help for others -- how many of her friends could she say that of? -- now laid himself as bare before her as she'd ever seen him. She had seen him completely naked on countless occasions, knew his face as he climaxed, his nobility as he slept beside her. She had seen him furious with her or with the world, had known his mischievousness when they were alone. She knew first hand the secret passions barely bridled inside him for they were the ones that demanded he give in to her. And she loved effortlessly all of those things.  
  
But this was the first time he had ever let her mourn with him. It was the first time she had ever seen him truly vulnerable. She had never known him so unsure.  
  
And she loved him infinitely for that.  
  
So she would be his strength now.   
  
Her lips slipped upward at the corners as she kissed the tips of his fingers and the question in his eyes became confused.  
  
"Would it help you if I were angry?" she wondered. Her voice was a purr that made his spine shiver. Her smile grew. She was a formidable opponent in The Game, she had come to discover, but she was better at this game: their game. The game of Solas' subtle mask. The game of Solas' love. If only the stakes were not so high.  
  
Solas' eyes rounded, becoming almost child-like as he gave a single nod. She gripped his wrist and kissed his palm, pressing her cheek against it briefly...and then extricated herself from his arms with a sound in her soul like ripping seams. She would need distance for this.  
  
"I'll have to work up to it," she admitted with a sigh, shoving both hands over her cheeks and eyes in case of straggling tears. 

For a moment when their gazes met again, they struggled with a shared smile, neither unaware of how absurd things had just become. 

"Are you ready?" Hal asked, and their shared smile became more confident.  
  
"You are a wonder," he breathed.  
  
Hal'la lifted her brows at him, playfully imperious. "If you don't stop complimenting me, I'll never get there. And then I'll just keep kissing you. And then where will we be?"  
  
A weak twinkle found purchase in Solas' eyes. Her relief was immense. "In bed, I imagine," he admitted. Their smile became a tainted grin.  
  
"So shut up and let me be angry."  
  
"Yes, vhenan," said Solas penitently. 

 _Strength_ , Hal willed herself.  _Be strong for him_.   
  
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, made fists and released them. Tried to remember the furious edges of her hurt. Each time she found one and reached out to touch it, it dissolved in front of her like ashes. She really was going to have to work up to this. "What you've done," she started slowly, suddenly unable to meet his eyes, "the way you did it." Her arms trembled and she forced them to stillness. She pressed her lips together to hold back any pain. Where was it? She knew it was there. She felt plenty of it the night before.   
  
She snuck a peek up at his face, outwardly placid to the unfamiliar, but to her, waiting so needfully for her to deliver on her promise.  
  
_Buckle down, Hal_ , she coached.  
  
"You took my choice away," she told the fabric of the couch between them. And a spark was struck. 

 _There it is_. 

"You took. My choice. Away from me." There was hurt there too, but she shoved it roughly aside and armored herself to finally settled Solas with her most pitiful ire. "I have no one now," she said, and her breastbone warmed with the tingle of that elusive anger. "I can't go back to my clan." It heated across her chest. "I can never go to  _any_ clan! I'm a city elf now, do you get that? But it was going to be okay." The tiny ember faltered, doused by pain. She sheltered it as best she could and fanned. "I might have made a different choice, Solas. I might have..."  
  
The baby flame guttered and died, leaving her tired and hollow and so terribly, unendingly  _sad_. Hal closed her eyes and let out a sigh. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was angry. A little. But I'm not now. I'm never angry when you're here."  
  
She felt the heat of him before the gentle supplication of his lips on hers and she melted against him, taking as much comfort and strength and relief from the kiss as he allowed. And then it was over and their foreheads were together once more. The only reason Hal opened her eyes again was because she had to see what was going on in his. They were calmer now, still full of sorrow and regret and yearning, but settled. Mostly their eyes were reflections of the depth of their love for each other, beyond lust, beyond this world or the next.   
  
_It's all one world_ , came Mother Giselle's echo in the Inquisitor's head.   
  
"Tell me what to do for you," Hal'la pleaded gently, her brow knit with worry. "Tell me how I can help you."  
  
Solas gripped hard at her hand with his. "You don't want to know why?"  
  
Despite the intensity of her other emotions, the question made her breathe out a harsh laugh. "Of course I do!" Ah, there was the anger. "Of  _course_ I do, Solas! Because all I want is you and if I can't have you, if I truly have  _nothing_ , then at least I want to know why! You took  _everything_ , Solas! You took all that I am, even my vallaslin, and you  _walked away_! I will survive without you. I won't say that I can't. I will. As will you. Though neither of us want that,  _that_ is what you've chosen for us. Without my say, without my even knowing the choice was being made! You said-- and I thought--"   
  
Her arms were shaking visibly now, so he gathered both her hands in his and pulled them to his chest as though he could imbue them with stability. But he was the stability and he couldn't stay. He'd made that very clear.  
  
"It was not what I had planned," he assured her with urgency in his voice. "I meant to tell you...so many things. The vallaslin was merely the first." He hesitated and she leapt on the opening he left her.  
  
"And then what?' she demanded. "You thought you'd show me how much I mean to you by telling me my whole life has been a lie, you thought you'd let me  _give_ you that lie, hand it over for you because...because I  _love_ you, because you wanted it for me so much, because I won't be a slave to anyone or anything, god or elf, because...because the Dread Wolf take Mythal, I will not be her puppet! And when I stood there with you, vulnerable and  _naked_ without the lies I'd lived, offering myself to you, you thought...you thought  _what_ , Solas?! You thought, 'Now is a good time to cut and run'?! Fenedhis, Solas! Sometimes you can be so...so...!"  
  
"I know," Solas breathed miserably. "I know. Forgive me, vhenan. I never meant--"  
  
"To hurt me, I know, Solas, you've told me. You won't  _stop_ telling me!"  
  
"I was selfish. It should never have come to this." He held his hands up now, a gesture of surrender and soothing, trying to calm Hal down so that he could explain. But it was too late. He wanted angry and angry was what he would get.

"And my vallaslin, that was some twisted parting gift? A consolation prize? 'You can't have me, vhenan, but to make you feel better I'll strip away everything else you are too! Surprise!'"  
  
"Please, Hal'la. It was not what I had planned, but it is...the best possible outcome. It was unwise and irresponsible to--"

 "To what!" Her voice shrilled with her fury. "To love me?! Am I so toxic, Solas?!"  
  
The question drove into Solas like one of her barbed daggers, shredding him to his core. He burst out in protection of her, reaching for her upper arms with both of his hands and gripping so that she had to meet his gaze, to see just how much he meant what he was saying. " _No_!" he insisted, voice rising. "Never think that!"  
  
Trapped as she was, her anger folded in on itself, ready at any moment to collapsed back into sorrow. "Then why!"  
  
"Because...!" He swallowed, letting her go and looking away, taking in the careful art he'd installed stroke by stroke in this very room. " _I_ am. Because  _I_ am toxic, ma lath. And it was selfish of me to...indulge...in..."  
  
Concern stole Hal'la's visage, but the anger hardened it. "Let  _me_ make that choice," she begged. "Don't fight my battles for me. Let  _me_ choose my fate!"  
  
But he was developing that awful look again, the one that said he had already made the choice for both of them. The one she knew would not budge unless she tortured him, manipulated him, and that she would not do. The understanding fell like heavy, silent snow between them.  
  
"My halla," Solas sighed, all remorse and longing. His calling cards. "Do you trust me?"  
  
She answered without thought or doubt: "Completely." She thought to see that steady him, but instead he slid away from her behind his mask. She opened herself up to him so that he could watch how it hurt her and he did not shy away from it.  
  
It was her turn to ask a question: "Do you love me?"  
  
He did her the favor of pulling the mask aside long enough to reveal his agony and certainty in that regard. "I have always loved you. I always will. With everything I have ever been or ever will be. With everything I am." He let out a helpless, rough laugh. Almost a bark. "Despite my best efforts, Hal'lasean, I am only your love for me."  
  
They came together like they had once to dance at Halamshiral, a drawing close of inevitable forces to move as one, but only their lips and palms met now. It was a plaintive, mournful kiss of farewell, a sealing of a pact that they would love from a distance, though Hal couldn't figure out if it was 'for now' or 'forever'. When they parted and their eyes met, she was hard pressed to decipher which tears belonged to which lover.   
  
"Please don't regret me," came her final plea to him, her voice breaking in time with her heart.  
  
This time he threw the mask away entirely, if only for the moment. He clasped her face in his hands and dove into her forcefully, making promises with his tongue and lips that his head would not allow.  
  
'Regret,' said the kiss, 'is felt only in the parting.'


	5. Chapter 5

The inexorable pull of her gravity was suddenly all he knew.  
  
He had been so desperate to show her that no matter how much he regretted his own weaknesses, he would never regret that they led him to her. He would never do her the dishonor of wishing away their time together, nor would he ever want to. She would be what kept him going on the long, harrowing journey that lay ahead of him. It should have stopped at that last kiss.

But her mouth was a demon of desire, enticing him to a life he could not have and did not deserve with a song he was powerless to resist. Her body was an ancient temple -- a sacred relic of Arlathan, known only to him -- and he would not be sated until he had explored every memory it held, caressed every darkened corner, discovered her every hidden rune. She would have let him have his distance. All he had to do was give her his word, promise the simple truth: he would never regret her. But they had kissed four times so far that morning and each one had been ripe and bittersweet, always more precious than the one before it. He only meant to say goodbye.  
  
The ritual of their tongues dancing together had opened rifts to their spirits and they had coveted each other feverishly. Hands groped for their favorite haunts, mouths hunted starving across the mountains and exalted plains of each other's bodies, camping at familiar landmarks and laying claim to each other's scars and hidden treasures. They had mapped each other well uncountable times before, but the land was fertile. They never grew weary of this road.

He painted frescos of her in the secret places of his soul, committing to his heart's memory her unmarked face in the early morning light as he expertly maneuvered her body, commanding her to gasp or whimper or cry out with a gesture or a look. She belonged to no one now. Not Mythal. Not the Dalish. Not even him. She did not belong to him, but she offered herself over and over, and it drove the wolf within him into a frothing frenzy. The wolf needed to own her. The wolf wanted no other hands on her supple skin, needed to mark her for his territory, went mad at the thought of another inside her. _His_ mate. The wolf in Solas would have roved all the worlds, slaughtering any who disputed his claim on her.  
  
But it was not the wolf who gave himself over to her on the couch in the rotunda one last time. It was Solas, her lover. It was Fen'Harel, the man. They slipped into each other without effort or will, the Inquisitor and the apostate, no longer capable of rational thought beyond _this_ and  _yes_ and  _now_. They paused only long enough for Solas to ward them out of sight or sound from the rest of Skyhold and then they tumbled together as they had when he first had named her his heart. It was exquisite, it was ecstasy, but it was not the pleasure that drove them. They were desperate to be one body, one heart, one spirit. They knew no other or higher purpose than their joining. He held himself above her with sinewy arms and watched her soul pine for his through her turquoise eyes, feeding the wolf scraps with every torturously slow, luxurious plunge between her legs. Her hips rolled in rhythm and Solas' blood was veil fire and pitch, pumping thick and hot from his heart to his loins. Their unfaltering gaze was all intensity and meaning, their kisses wild gambits to reach each other through the confines of their flesh. Their spirits rebelled against their better judgment, intertwining so intimately that they could no longer tell where his ended and hers began.

Her climax was a Fade-touched revelation that syphoned all the light and color and shape from his vision and left him trembling with the effort of holding himself up. And then Solas drove with all he had into the thrumming heat of her body, surrendering there as he panted and clutching needfully at every part of her. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the beloved, intoxicating scent of her sweat and soap and her long, unbound hair.

It was only after he emptied himself into her and lay his shuddering weight down on her slight, willing frame that his mind began to come back to him. It was like waking from a dream of Arlathan as it should have been and finding himself in the ruins. If he was good at nothing else in this weakened state, he thought bitterly, it was getting lost in Hal'lasean. Her only magic should have been his anchor in her hand, and yet she held power over him. A unique and breathtaking magic that was the single chink in his ancient armor, that found its way in no matter how hard he fought it.

He should have fought harder.

 _No_ , he thought as his head cleared of lust, _no! You fool! You told her never again! Do you relish hurting her?!_

In their closeness, she read the language of his tensing body, the crinkle of his brow against the skin of her neck. Hal'la slipped her delicate arms around him like silken sheets and held him to her, stroking fingers down his spine the way she knew he liked. "It's okay, ma lath," she promised him. "Ma sa'lath. I know. I know. It won't happen again."  
  
His muddled mind clung to her words gratefully and he sank back against her, his body unable or unwilling to disengage from her own.  
  
"Ir abelas," he murmured again, like a mantra that had stopped working. He could feel the flush still in her cheek as she rested it against his naked scalp.   
  
"Tel'abelas," she replied, sweet overtones in her voice he knew belonged only here, in the moments after they'd taken their pleasure from each other. The thought that this might be the last time he ever heard them clawed despairing holes in his already defeated heart. She caressed and petted him, tracing Dalish-learned patterns across his freckled skin with light nails and the feather touch of her fingertips.  
  
_Do not think_ , a part of him begged.  _Let this be for a little while longer_.  
  
He nuzzled her neck until he felt her lazy smile bloom against his skin and he rewarded her with a ghosted kiss on her collarbone. The sun rose slowly over the jagged peaks that surrounded the fortress, marking the passage of time and inching them closer to their parting, but for now, for a little while longer, they could be one. He softened inside her but did not shift from his final position, covering her body with his, protecting her and enjoying her for what might very well be the last time. Solas made the most of it. He listened to the immediacy of her heartbeat and matched his breathing to hers. He let his fingers roam where they would, proving their knowledge of her with each tracing of her pointed ear, with the mole he so loved on the blade of her hip, with the gentle sweep of her waist. They came to rest over the breast he did not already hide beneath him, studying the swell of her flesh with the rough pad of his thumb.

If this happened again, he would not have the strength to leave her. Solas vowed to himself and on his honor that when she left him today, he would do whatever it took to push her away. No more 'vhenan' or 'uthlath' or 'ma halla'. Not even her name. No more sharing tents or meals or secret looks. She would be the Inquisitor to him. Nothing more. Nothing less.  
  
She shifted beneath him, releasing a soft sound that made the wolf sit up and beg. Perhaps the distance could wait until tomorrow.  
  
"Solas," Hal'la breathed, breaking their long silence.

"Yes, vhenan?"  
  
She hesitated. "Have you known all along? That you would have to...?"  
  
Solas moved his hand from her breast to her neck, running the backs of his fingers under her chin and down elegant muscles to her shoulders. It gave him time to choose his words carefully. After all of this, after this unexpectedly perfect goodbye, to ruin things now would be unforgivable. "I...did," he admitted, his apology already in his voice. "Sometimes I thought, perhaps...but, yes, my heart, I have always known. I should have been stronger. I should have resisted. It was so unfair to you. But you were..." He passed his lips just under her ear. "You _are_..."

"Irresistible?" Hal'la guessed, smiling slyly at his attentions.

But that part of him that wanted nothing more than to lie with her in his arms for the rest of her time whispered something else entirely:  _Inevitable._  
  
_Banal nadas_ , he'd told the Nightmare in the Fade.  _Banal nadas_ , cried the Fen'Harel he used to be.   
  
_Inevitable._  
  
He became aware that he had not spoken for some time, so he appeased his conflicted nature and the woman in his embrace by saying simply: "How could I resist my own heart made flesh?"  
  
This did not pacify either part of Solas, and apparently it was not enough for Hal'la either. "You could have told me," she said, her voice gentle but unmovable. "You should have told me."  
  
_I should have done a great many things in my life_.  
  
He knew then that parting from her could not wait until tomorrow, for he would always be willing to give her today, and then the time would never come. And it would be too late.  
  
_You are doing her a kindness_ , he reminded himself.  
  
It took all of Solas' remaining self-control to slip from her sweetest embrace, but it was necessary, both for the conversation they were about to have and if he had any hope of leaving this rotunda unattached. He placated himself on his loss by bending to dust his lips on the thatch of curly hair on the altar at which he had just worshipped. He lay back down beside her and she rolled onto her hip to face him, her brow already worried with what he was about to do or say.  
  
"Ma halla," Solas lamented fondly. He smoothed down her wrinkled skin as best he could with his thumb. "Hal'lasean." Her name was a prayer from his lips. He breathed in deeply then, distancing himself from the masochistic brutality of what he was about to say and slowly replacing his mask. "I think perhaps it would be best if--"

"No." Her brow knit again, but this time it was not with worry. He had seen this look many times before; it was the one she favored when she was about to dig in her heels.

"No?" he echoed in surprise. "Do you even know what I was going to say?"  
  
"Yes," she insisted. "And the answer is no."

"Hal'la..."  
  
"I said no!"

He sat up to lord his height over her, but she was uninterested in Solas' game. She lay below him, naked and tousled, and still managed to summon all her imperious Inquisitorial power. His only defense was to speak to her as an advisor. "I would see you happy, vhenan," he reasoned earnestly even as his heart clenched. "And I am not blind to the..." His lips tensed. "... _close f_ _riendship_ you have cultivated with the Commander."  
  
" _Solas_ ," sanctioned Hal'la as she finally sat up, her voice and visage strained. "You cannot ask this of me." He opened his mouth to try again, but she placed both hands on his cheeks and drew his face to hers so that he could not avoid the fierce, stubborn commitment in her gaze or the impassioned plea in her words. "No more. No more, Solas. I am giving you your distance from me. Is that not enough for you? You _cannot_ ask that of me. Not that. Do you hear me? Pushing me away is your choice. I grant you that. But letting you go is mine. And as long as I am, Solas, ma uthlath, I am _yours_." It was Solas' turn for worry to invade his brow, but she made no effort to erase it as he had done for her. She let him wear it like a crown. "So until you come back to me...or until you no longer love me...I will be waiting."

Solas turned her words over and over in his mind, seeing them from every possible angle, his imagination and anxiety filling him with futures he could not survive. Futures in which Mythal came for Hal'lasean and left her broken in her wake, or worse, wore his love's skin to spite him. Futures in which she was hunted for her love, tortured for information he had never given her, enslaved by those he once called lethallin. Dangled by the ruthless claws of self-proclaimed gods as bait to lure the Dread Wolf home. He could not lose her like that, could not be to blame for the ruin of something else so pure and perfect. Not again. But more than that, he could not risk failure. Not in this of all things. Her love for him may have been who he was now, but he still belonged to the Dread Wolf inside him. And the Dread Wolf demanded he finish what he started.  
  
He briefly considered lying to her. He could wait a few weeks, treat her coldly, and then in a moment alone, explain that he no longer felt as he had. He could take up with another woman, dabble openly in front of her. He was the trickster, was he not? There had never been another who could best him at The Game. He could make her believe it. Erase all the truths he had confessed in her embrace. Paint himself the villain The People already believed him to be. Give away what little was left of his honor. Draw and quarter his own heart.

He could do those things. But he would not.

"And if I never come back to you?" he wondered delicately, searching her eyes for doubt.

Not a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face as she offered a tremulous smile. "I am not afraid to die alone."


	6. Chapter 6

Hal'la's quiet declaration tore the air from Solas' lungs. He felt suddenly lightheaded, the rotunda all at once much too round for the way this world was spinning. If he hadn't already been sitting, his legs might have given out beneath him. He knew his jaw was slightly slack in his shock, but he couldn't remember how to close his lips. Had he been good at hiding himself behind the mask once? Or had he dreamed that?  
  
They had never discussed it. Never talked about what they had seen in that particular corner of the Fade. It was too personal; too terrifying. But they had stood together in the graveyard of their fears, hooking fingers despite their armored gloves, and read each headstone in a silence that buzzed like a hive. Not even Dorian had been able to make a joke. Not when faced with that.

Hers had been gut-wrenching and he had made love to her endlessly when her injuries had healed as though his passion alone could work the fear from her soul: _Hal'lasean:_   _Unworthy._

When the Nightmare had taunted her, her fears were brave and selfless. Solas swelled with love for her each time he thought of it, that booming voice mocking her with the details of every death suffered because of decisions she had made and predicting future failures of her friends and the world, all in the shemlen tongue that meant her companions could understand every malevolent word. They would know that inside their Herald was a young elf convinced she was a petrified charlatan.  
  
The Nightmare had been ruthless to her in all ways. But it had spared him his mask.  
  
The Fade had not been so kind.  
  
_Solas_ , his epitaph had read.  _Dying alone_.

They never spoke of it. Of any of it. She never asked him what the Nightmare had said to him in Elvhen. They both knew that he would tell her in his own time, in his own way, if he ever told anyone. He was infinitely grateful for her patience with him. Her patience with everyone. It was a trait rare even among the immortals of Arlathan; they were always willing to wait for results and events, to play the long game for their plots and schemes, but they were fatalistic and unforgiving with people. As he had been. Before Hal'la.  
  
He might have stared at her for ages, wounded and wondering and unsure, if it weren't for that brave, hopeful little smile. She wasn't throwing his fear in his face or manipulating him as others might have done. She was, as always, offering herself to him, even when he was hurting her, even as he abandoned her. She was forgiving him. That was extraordinary enough on its own, but to remind him just how well she knew him and to still offer forgiveness...  
  
_She doesn't know you_ , said the man he used to be.  _And if she did, she would never forgive you._  
  
He suppressed the cocksure voice of the Dread Wolf, smothered it heartlessly so that he could warm himself a little while longer in the ease and purity of her affections. Just a little while longer.  
  
Solas finally remembered to close his mouth. And then he remembered to close his heart. It was time. But with the graveyard fresh in his memory, he could not leave her without  _something_.  
  
"It may be a long time before I can say this to you again," Solas murmured, his voice low and his throat tight. He placed her palm -- the one that marked her for him, the one that had changed his life -- on his heart and sheltered it there with his own hand before closing the distance between them. This, it seemed they both knew instinctively, would be the last time their lips would meet. They had said their goodbye with their bodies; this was merely the closing ceremony. The benediction. When their lips parted, a rehearsal for their own fast-approaching separation, he moved his mouth to her ear. "Ar lath ma," he promised. "Ma sa'uthlath. Ma vhenan." The final blessing.  
  
When he pulled away to see his words work their magic on her delicately featured face, Solas found her surprisingly serene. Hal'lasean sat naked before him, unmarked, undressed, unmasked. But even without guise and guile, her expression spoke of her patience, her forgiveness. Her sorrow spilled down her cheeks a few fat tears at a time, but she still offered him that same unsteady smile.  
  
He ached for her already.  
  
"Ar lath ma," Hal'la answered in kind. 

Solas reached for her once more, touching only the wet tracks of her pain on her pale skin and soothing them away with the length of his thumb. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation, leaning into his hand, and then, as though a spell had been broken, they both turned their attentions toward their discarded clothing. They didn't speak or lock eyes while they dressed, but just as surely as he could feel her gaze on him when he wasn't looking, Solas stole last glances of her familiar body as she reluctantly hid it away from his sight. When they were done, she adjusted his tunic and he smoothed and untangled her hair.  
  
Above them, the rookery came to life with the squawks of hungry ravens and the Tranquil were beginning their empty, efficient day in the library. Solas dismantled the barrier that afforded them their final privacy...and the two lovers shared a heartbroken smile.  
  
Solas picked up his staff to keep his hands from reaching for her again. She crossed her arms protectively beneath her chest.   
  
"Solas?" she asked as their quiet departure was upon them. He didn't trust himself to reply without using an endearment, so instead he inclined his head. He was listening. "I don't  _want_ to die alone. So try to hurry, okay?"  
  
The smile that bloomed across his face was fond and pleased, tinted though it was with his loss. Hers was a longing echo.  
  
"I will try."  
  
These were the promises he could keep. He loved her. He would try. But he could not promise he would succeed.

Hal'la stood with him a few moments longer, uncertain of what to say or whether to say anything at all. And then, with a final flash of that adoring smile, she stiffened the space between her shoulder blades and left him there. She didn't look back, but he couldn't look away, even when the heavy wooden door closed behind her, separating him physically from his own heart.

He would be Fen'Harel from now on.

  
  
~~~

 

Hal'lasean had completely forgotten about her vallaslin until she checked her reflection in a window on her way to the sunny little room that her inner circle had commandeered for their meals and the occasional game of Wicked Grace. She only meant to glance at herself to make sure there were no hints of her long night of crying before she went to meet the others for breakfast, so she was still walking past when the bare-faced elf girl caught her by surprise. For a moment, she thought it was some young recruit from an alienage come to join the Inquisition until she remembered that this particular window looked out to a sheer drop off on the windiest side of the fortress.  
  
That stranger was no city elf.  
  
It was her.  
  
Her breath abandoned her in a sharp exhale and her eyes widened with a growing panic. No longer Dalish. No longer his. No longer anything. What was she now? Who was she now?  
  
"Inquisitor."  
  
Ha'la jerked her head up in shock as an ailing old man -- a mage from Redcliffe, she recalled -- continued on his way down the hall and disappeared around a corner.  
  
"Morning, Inquisitor," greeted a young woman from the kitchens as she hurried past with a towering tray that was no doubt headed for Iron Bull.  
  
"Oh right," Hal told herself out loud, and then laughed only slightly hysterically. "Inquisitor. Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, drinker from whispering wells, closer of holes in the sky, very powerful, very important, responsible for all life in Thedas. And completely, totally alone." She laughed again, harder this time, and pressed her hands over her face to collect herself before she started to sob.  
  
"Inquisitor?"  
  
This time it was one of Josephine's assistants, a pretty Orlesian noblewoman named Nanette who fancied herself scandalous for being here with the exotic Dalish Inquisitor instead of back in Halamshiral, whelping blue-blooded pups with a proper shemlen match. Despite the early hour, she was already decked out in her newest and most fashionable finery with her hair and face impeccably done, taking tiny heeled steps in her ridiculous slippers and amiably guiding some Lord Unimpressed of a minor house toward the main hall to take in Skyhold in all its renovated splendor. Or at least, she had been doing those things until she had come across their unshakable leader laughing helplessly into her palms.  
  
Later Hal would remember to be grateful for the run-in. Because though the Dalish elf was having an identity crisis and the young woman was nursing a broken heart, the Inquisitor did not have the luxury of those messy emotions. So when she took her hands from her face, she was all power and charm, even when Josie's assistant practically gaped to find the Inquisitor's infamous Dalish tattoos had vanished in the night.  
  
Hal pretended nothing at all was amiss and turned her attentions to the visiting noble. It was a pleasure to meet him. Oh, yes, she had visited his estate on her way to Halamshiral. Yes, she was sure it must lovely this time of year (for the wealthy shemlen, not for the displaced elves). She was very sorry to take her leave, but she was very important and very busy. Yes, she would be sure to see him later today and the Inquisition appreciated his support.  
  
His guide led him in the opposite direction and Hal found herself feeling much more in control.  
  
"I was told she would be Dalish," she overheard the lord say like a disappointed theatregoer.  
  
Well. A little more in control anyway.

She took a closer look at herself in the window, making sure Solas had properly adjusted her hair for her and that her clothes were on in a presentable way. She practiced smiling a few times, just to be sure she still knew how to do it without looking pitiful. And then she turned on her heel, squared her shoulders, and started her walk of Dalish shame.  
  
It was like attending the Orlesian ball all over again. Anyone who wasn't too aghast or too overtly racist to remember to greet her gave her the customary "Inquisitor," but there were far fewer of those than was usual. Her morning salutations had been replaced by whispers and gasps that rippled out in front of her like the first winds before a storm, so that by the time she moved from one room to the next, there was already an audience of wide eyes waiting to see her naked face for themselves. She felt sure that somehow, up in the rookery, Leliana had already heard all about it.  
  
Hal thought of the Solas everyone else saw, proud and unflappable, the noble elf apostate who was above it all. And though each ignorant comment she overheard was a nail being hammered into her chest, she kept her chin high and her eyes forward. She would not give them the satisfaction of looking embarrassed or ashamed. They could not humiliate her. They would never see her blush. Not even these people, who professed to follow her. Especially not these people. They were under her protection, but she was not protected from them. The Inquisitor could not falter.

It took every bit of discipline she had to keep her hands from touching the places her ink had claimed only a few hours before. All she had to do was make it into the dining room. They would stare at her there, her friends and closest advisors, they would ask her oblivious questions. But they would support her. She had that much, at least.

With overwhelming relief, she pushed open the thick door that led her to them and headed straight for the unoccupied head of the table. Not because she wanted to sit there, but because they made her.

The tray had indeed been for Bull and was already sitting in front of him in various stages of disarray. He held a massive leg of lamb in one hand and his face was covered in marinade as he laughed uproariously at something Varric was in the middle of saying. "For five hours! I thought we were going to have to send Harding in to--"  
  
"Boss! It's about time! We were just talking about you!"  
  
Hal's chest warmed pleasantly as she took in the scene: Varric's self-satisfied storytelling, Bull's enthusiasm for a good punchline, Cassandra trying and failing to pretend she wasn't listening to, much less enjoying Varric's tale. It was too late to have caught Leliana or Cullen, and no doubt Josie was breaking bread with some visiting figurehead in their rooms, but even just the three of them lifted the suffocating weight from her slender shoulders at least enough for her to finally breathe. And smile. Oh, how she smiled at them. She was delighted to be enveloped in their din.   
  
"Heeeey, Hal!" called Varric, lifting a hand to wave her over. "I was just telling Bull here about that time--"  
  
Sudden and astounded silence. They had all noticed at once. And they were staring. Blatantly, unabashedly. Staring. Hal felt her cheeks burn an impossible shade of pink, made all the more visible by her lack of vallaslin. Half-chewed lamb fell in a wet clump from Bull's gaping maw. Cassandra's eyes were narrowed as though this were a prank aimed at her and she was not happy about it. Only Varric, who usually managed to take even the weirdest of the Inquisiton's experiences in stride, managed to speak.  
  
"Andraste's shapely ass!"  
  
Hal changed her mind. She wanted to go eat in her room. Alone. Forever.

She became acutely aware that she was glowering at Varric in challenge, daring him to say the wrong thing. Luckily for him, Cassandra jumped in, giving him time to find just the right joke. "Your face! It's...!"  
  
"Hideous!" declared Varric lightly, and suddenly Hal was laughing near-hysterically again. She sank into the closest empty chair, the one Dorian usually preferred, and laughed openly until there were tears in her eyes. The dwarf's shrewd gaze took in the the weariness of her uninked face and the slightly disheveled state of her hair and clothing. Bull and Cassandra were still staring, especially now that it looked like the Inquisitor might be losing her mind, but Varric was searching for clues. Varric, the storyteller, her almost constant companion, could see what the other two could not. He still looked baffled, but just because he didn't understand didn't mean he couldn't be understanding. "You wanna talk about it now or later?"  
  
"Is there a third option?" she wondered dryly, and was rewarded for her miserable humor with a wan smirk from Varric.   
  
She'd have to talk about it to some of them sooner or later. In part because they were her friends, these misfits and malcontents, in part because she would probably need to talk about it eventually for her own well-being, and, ultimately, perhaps most importantly, because after everything they'd been through together, how intricately their pasts had intertwined their presents and futures, after all the secrets and revelations and hidden meanings, Hal'lasean had made it her personal mission as the unworthy leader of this tightly-knit team to always trust her people with the truth. No matter how complicated. No matter how painful. Because if she was not willing to give them her truths, why would they ever volunteer their own?  
  
And so she was open with them. Always. Unfailingly. Even when it was torture. Even when it meant letting them down. Even when it felt like betraying The People.  
  
"Solas," she started tentatively, and the held-together pieces of her shattered heart shifted against each other like an aftershock, "informed me that what the Dalish believe to be a...rite of passage into adulthood...to honor our gods..." She sucked in a rough breath and forced herself to continue. She could do this. She had to do this. Her cheeks were on fire with her shame. "He told me they were, in fact..." No tears. No tears! She clamped down on her feelings with all her strength. "They are... _slave_ markings. And he...offered...to...remove them. For me." She hesitated and then warned them as sternly as she could, "This must stay between us. My change will get out, but my reasons cannot. The Dalish...they won't understand. They won't believe. Not yet." Her lips rolled in on themselves and she dropped her gaze to the table, fighting back the tide of her insecurities as she waited for her judgment at the hands of her comrades.  
  
No one said anything for far too long, and then Varric asked, ever-so-gently, "...Doesn't that mean you can't go back?"  
  
Hal's heart spasmed in her chest and she lifted her gaze to meet Varric's in surprise. His face was all sympathy as she answered with the barest of nods. He let out a low whistle under his breath.  
  
"What does he mean, you cannot go back?" demanded Cassandra, narrowing her eyes at Hal'lasean as though she were interrogating her for a crime.  
  
"It means she can't go back," reiterated Varric with a warning edge to his voice. When he was sure Cass got the message to back down, he turned to the Inquisitor with a twinkle in his eyes. "Tell you what, Hal," and he smiled at her, "we'll start our own clan. You and me." He cast a sidelong look at Iron Bull. "And Tiny here." And then he winked at Cassandra. "Vote's still out on Seeker, though. She'll have to audition." Cassandra glowered and Varric beamed.  
  
"Sounds intriguing! Is there room for a dashingly handsome Tevinter mage?"  
  
They looked up to find Dorian leaning against the door frame. He had clearly been there for some time, but none of them had noticed him come in. While Hal had been with Solas, Dorian had apparently taken the time to properly bathe and had dressed himself far more elaborately for the day than what he'd thrown on earlier for the confrontation. He had even outdone himself with the carefully styled pomp of his hair. But it was not these things that drew Hal to him so quickly she almost tripped over the table leg. It wasn't the new polish on his staff that left her speechless or the scent of his expensive, imported cologne that made her heart thump clumsily in her chest. No, Dorian earned the watery, emotional smile from Hal because of what he didn't have.  
  
Dorian had shaved his magnificent mustache.  
  
He gave her a helpless smile and a shrug and she threw her arms around him, kissing him firmly on his moisturized cheek. 

"I didn't do it for you," he told her with an affronted sniff as she pulled back to look at him, just in case she thought she was going to get anything even remotely akin to genuine emotion. "I did it for the rumors."

Hal grinned at him stupidly and he smiled and rolled his eyes.   
  
"You're blushing," she told him with a pleasure that practically wriggled through her.  
  
And now he was grinning too. "As are you, my dear."  
  
Hal hooked her arm with Dorian's and turned to take her place at his side so that they could stand before their friends together to present their newly naked miens.

Varric snorted so hard he started to choke and Cassandra floundered and gawped, but Iron Bull sat up a little straighter in his seat and made a point of wiping his face clean. If anything, the Bull seemed...pleased.  
  
"Sparkler!" Varric coughed and laughed at the same time, slapping a hand on the table. "Looks like you finally twisted that lip-warmer right off your face!"  
  
"I like it," rumbled Bull, and Dorian grew redder.  
  
Hal narrowed her eyes at Varric, playful and dangerous. "I'll take you up on that clan, Varric," she informed him as though she'd reached a difficult political decision. "But there'll be a price of admission." The dwarf wiped away imaginary tears as he continued to guffaw. "If you want in, you have to prove yourself a loyal member of the group. So you'd have to shave your chest hair."  
  
Varric blanched. Hal'lasean smiled wickedly.

"Yes," agreed Dorian with great solemnity. "In solidarity."

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish notes:
> 
> "Ma vhenan" - "my heart"  
> "Ma lath" - "my love"  
> "Ir abelas" - "I'm sorry/I am full of sorrow"  
> "Tel'abelas" - "I'm not (sorry)"  
> "Ma uthlath" - "my eternal love"  
> "Ma sa'lath" - "my one love"  
> "Ma sa'uthlath" - "my one, eternal love"  
> "Banal nadas" - "nothing is inevitable"  
> "Lethallin" - "cousin/clansman/kin"  
> "Fenedhis" - a common Elvish curse


End file.
